


Windlass

by alltheircrimesarejust



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Genderswap, Unbeta'd, Witches, fem!Bilbo, playing fast and loose with canon, self-indulgent silliness, spotty understanding of herbal medicine, written for a lark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheircrimesarejust/pseuds/alltheircrimesarejust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite Gandalf telling the company otherwise, Bramble Baggins is most certainly not a witch. She is, at best, a clever hand with herbs and poultices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Windlass

**Author's Note:**

> Suggested Music: Mary's Magic by Pogo and Aggie Fights by Jon Brion

Bramble Baggins really preferred that people called her a healer or an herbwife. Really, that’s where most of her skills lay. She’d grown up with an attentive ear to any advice passed to her by the Maggots and Gamgees, learning which plants were edible, medicinal, or poisonous. If she happened to also have a bit of the Sight and a bit of extra intuition about what combinations of ingredients could bring about luck or happiness, well so much the better. It was really no reason to call her a _witch_. 

It was all because of a bit of silly gossip that had started up when Belladonna Took had been in her tweens. Like any good hobbit, she’d been an excellent cook, but many had noticed that a dish prepared when she was sad could bring a grown hobbit to the deepest melancholy. When she’d fallen in love with Bungo Baggins and delivered him a boysenberry pie, their sudden and whirlwind courtship had caused the scandal of the decade. 

Every hobbit was an emotional cook. Bramble had no idea why it bothered anyone. 

And she’d cast a particularly sour look when Gandalf had gone an introduced her to the Company as a hedgewitch. The title had given them all the impression that she was some kind of powerful sorceress, rather than an herbalist with a few extra tricks. 

Thorin, in particular, had been rather demanding about shows of usefulness. It was always, “Witch, can’t you draw some game closer?” or “Witch, shouldn’t you have seen those goblins coming?” As if she would knowingly lure anything to its death. 

No protests of “I’m not a witch” or “I can’t do that kind of thing” seemed to sway them.

And the night after the trolls was its own disaster. 

“Did you enchant them?” Kili had asked, apparently thrilled at the idea of real magic in their midst. “Is that why they were confused until sunlight.”

Bramble had sniffed and shoved another cup of brewed chicory root into his hands. “Drink that or you really _will_ have parasites from crawling around in a troll hoard for half a day,” she’d said tartly. 

And it hadn’t stopped there. At Rivendell she had slipped away to gather some useful plants only to have Bofur follow after her and announce that, “Look! Our witch is making potions in the cauldron!” 

“I am _not_ ,” Bramble said for the thousandth time as she added more sugar to her bilberry jam and thinking very hard on its use for improving eyesight. “Stop insisting I’m a witch or I shan’t give you any of this marigold ointment to keep the bugs off.”

“I don’t know why you’re so against it,” Bofur mused. “We respect hedgewitches.” 

Bramble shook her head. “I’m just an herbwife. There hasn’t been a true witch in the family since my great-aunt Pansy and I oughtn’t even say that much. It was terrible for her reputation.”

“But when you tend the fires they burn longer and smoke less. When you cook, we stay fuller longer,” Bofur counted on his fingers. “And I’ve never felt stronger after a hard battle and a poor night’s rest than after that poultice you gave me.”

“That was just pounded comfrey and catmint. No magic.”

Bofur scoffed. “Miss Baggins, I have been slathered in my fair share of poultices and salves but your comfrey and catmint is a miracle in and of itself. Why don’t you welcome what you are, lass?” 

“Because I’m an herbwife, at best! I don’t have a fifth of Great-Aunt Pansy’s talents or knowledge.”

Bofur had seemed on the verge of saying something before he shook his head, “Suit yourself. I still say you’re more than a dab hand with the herbs.”

She refused to speak to Bofur for a week after that conversation and, true to her word, had held back on her marigold ointment. Let him take a few bites and stings to learn the difference a flower (and no more than that) could make. 

The company’s insistence that Bramble had powers only made Thorin’s dislike for her worse. It all came to a head when she was nearly lost over the side of a mountain (and she would really have liked to see anyone do any better in slick, unsure footing) and Thorin glared down at her. “You’re supposed to make our travels safer, witch, not give us more troubles.” 

She didn’t bother to correct him anymore, already resolved to pack up her kit and just go home. That night, with the quiet footsteps of a hobbit, she prepared to creep out when Bofur looked on at her. “You can’t leave, Bramble! You’re part of the company.”

“You don’t need me. Thorin was right. I’m hardly of any use to you, am I? I’ve sketched and written down the plants I use and the jams and leaves will keep, if you keep them sealed.” 

“You know, Miss Bramble, there’s a great many questions of ours you never answered. Like why the fires you stoke are the warmest and stay blazing, even in the wet.” 

She didn’t have time to say that nine tenths of it was her mother’s teachings. Only the remaining sliver, if any, could be attributed to magic. 

The floor caved in and down they all went. The Company to the hospitality of goblins and Bramble to a dangerous riddle game and a stolen ring. 

“See now. That’s real magic,” she told herself as she marveled at the ring’s usefulness. “I can’t do any of that at all.” 

Invisible, she heard Thorin disparage her skills vehemently. “What witchcraft has she done? Herbs and jam? She’s never cared for any of this and not lifted a finger to help despite her supposed power.” 

Bramble’s face burned hot and angry. Those herbs and jams had done a great deal more than any of her limited witchcraft could do. She felt like her hair was standing on end as the wind whipped around them and she pulled off her ring and reappeared to them. “Say what you want about my herblore, Thorin Oakenshield!” she shouted. “But don’t say it was useless! I’d never have done any of that if it didn’t really, truly help! I may not be a witch or even a burglar, but I can help. I _want_ to help!” 

She didn’t notice the way the wind swirled only around her, howling as her temper rose. Nor did she notice the surprise on Thorin’s face. “I’m a hobbit and an herbwife and–” 

A howl cut through the night and they were all plunged into battle again and worse than ever with that great, nasty goblin putting a sword to Thorin’s throat.

“Don’t hurt him!” Bramble shrieked. She surprised herself by running forward, her stupid letter-opener sword at the ready. 

She didn’t get a chance to use her sword because a powerful gust of wind knocked him back and away from Thorin, bringing a swath of fire with it. 

“Oh dear,” she said, even as she tried to drag that stubborn, unconscious dwarf out of harm’s way. “Who knew it skipped a generation?” 

She wasn’t given much time to ponder that as the eagles swooped down to carry them off to safety. Once they were secure on the rock, she was also too busy scrambling for her pack while Gandalf woke Thorin with his own magic. 

As Bramble approached with a tin of ointment made from arnica, Thorin glared down at her. “Didn’t I say you would be a burden? A useless creature with no real skill?” He was hugging her very tight and Bilbo almost dropped her ointment. “You are a fine witch, Miss Bramble Baggins.” 

“Yes well,” she mumbled. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to do that again. I’m not a great wizard like Gandalf here. I’m just a hedgewitch at best.”

“With a strong determination to protect those you hold dear,” Gandalf reminded her. 

Bilbo opened her mouth to object because who on earth would hold _Thorin Oakenshield_ dear? Instead, she opened her jar of ointment and reached into her pack for some bay leaves and more comfrey. 

Magic was all very well and good, but even a witch needed her potions.

**Author's Note:**

> Look. I don't know. I just really wanted to write something that pertained to the Cute Witch trope. 
> 
> I apologize for...everything.


End file.
